


I wanna hold your hand

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lil fluffy, canon compatible, s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:45:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5864458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And please say to me / You'll let me hold your hand. - The Beatles.</p><p>Once before Simmons leaves, and once when she comes back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

**Before**

Simmons stood in front of her mirror and looked herself in the face.

She looked awful.

She covered it up well during the day, but now she’d taken off her make-up, and all the cracks and stretches she felt inside were starting to show. Her lips were worried; chapped and bitten. Her cheeks were colourless, except where purple-grey bags hung like shadows under her red-rimmed eyes. Her irises shone golden as her tears reflected the dim light like the surface of a lake. Usually, that at least made her smile, but tonight it gave her no solace.

“Jemma. The plane’s ready.”

Coulson’s voice was quiet. Reluctant, even. She sighed. 

“I’m coming,” she replied, just as quietly.

“Take your time.”

She sighed again, and forced her eyes away from her reflection. She ran the tap one more time, and splashed water over her face as if it could wash away the flaws from her features. Or at least hide the tears.

She clenched a fist and stepped away from the sink. If she didn’t leave now, she never would. She turned on her heels and picked up her duffel bag, and strode with purpose until she reached the doorway, where Coulson was waiting with sad eyes.

“I’ll take that, Jemma,” he offered, gesturing for her bag. As she passed it over, he looked her up and down, one final check that she really wanted to do this.

“It’s for the best,” she said. Her new mantra. She forced a smile, drawing on every hope she had for this plan. If it helped Fitz, she would do it. She had to. She wanted to. This crippling pain, this desire to tear her own heart out; it was for the best. 

Coulson nodded his recognition and led the way down the hall and out into the hangar. Simmons let her smile drop. There was no point tiring it out. She nodded back though he could no longer see her, and caught up to follow at his heels, grateful for this last chance to be with someone who might just know the weight of what she was carrying. 

When they passed the Bus, she stopped. It was half-gutted as they were simultaneously in the process of fixing it and moving out. She’d never been a poetic type, to relate so much to a huge heap of flying metal, but when her eyes strayed up the cargo ramp, she felt her heart swell in her chest. The lights were still on, but she couldn’t see or hear anyone in there. Fitz must have fallen asleep at his desk again.

“Anything else?” Coulson asked. He’d stopped beside her, waiting.

She blinked, casting her eyes down, then at Coulson’s face, but immediately they were pulled back to the soft light of the lab. 

“One more thing,” she whispered.

She crept up the loading ramp and quietly into the lab. They’d never got around to repairing the doors Garrett had ripped off; there had been no point, since they were moving out, and since most of the panels had somehow disappeared. But she didn’t need doors for this to feel like her space, especially when she set eyes on Fitz, asleep in his chair. Unlike the old days, he leaned back in his chair, rather than sprawled across the desk, but still, she saw his character in the way his hands dangled, as if halfway through a gesture, and his beautiful face seemed at peace, having beautiful dreams. He looked so much happier, asleep.

She let out a slow, quiet, controlled breath, and recited that mantra to herself. They’d talked about her leaving, and she’d lied her face off with a smoothness Grant Ward would have been proud of. She’d left a note on Fitz’ bed where she’d been a little more honest, but not as much as she would have liked. Here, she could be as honest as she liked. She could wake him up if she wanted to; it would only take the slightest sound. But if she did that, if she had to look him in the face as she was walking out the door, she might just lose the ability to stand. Her fingers itched to touch him. To fix his collar. To lift his dangling hand onto his chest so that he would still feel his fingers in the morning.

She clenched a fist and stepped away.


	2. After

**After**

She still doesn’t like the way Mack looks at her. It’s just the mixture of pity, sympathy and righteous anger that she feels like she deserves. But at least Fitz is getting better, and her situation with Fitz is getting better. They even cracked a joke together yesterday, and the warmth from the fireworks that set off in her chest still linger as she makes tea for the two of them, and coffee for Mack, with energy in her step. 

A little too much energy, perhaps; it’s still early in the morning, earlier than she realised, and the new lab is dark when she gets down there. It’s not the first time. She can wait. At least she doesn’t have to sling that black lab coat over her shoulders again. Ever.

Pushing the door open is getting less painful. The room is warm now, not so hostile to her presence as it was even the week before. They’re making progress. It makes her smile an honest smile, one that stretches her cheeks but doesn’t hurt them or make her feel like she has to hold her breath to keep it. She looks at that smile in the glass for a moment. Yes, they’re making progress.

And in the glass she catches a glimmer of movement. She looks closer; it’s hard to tell in the dim lighting, but there is someone in the lab after all. She turns to face the movement, minute though it was, and her smile drops and reforms into a smaller, softer smile.

_Oh, Fitz._

One of his hands dangles down the side of the chair. The other lies across his chest, with the last of a handful of papers dangling from his sleep-weakened hold. 

She puts the tray of drinks on the bench and kneels down to pick up the papers that have fallen at his feet. As she gathers them together, she glances over them; printouts of blueprints and analyses she would only understand through closer observation. 

As she stands and puts the pile of papers on the bench beside the tray, the last paper falls to the ground and slips under the bench. She immediately ducks after it. It’s nothing special at first glance: a bare-bones draft design on semi-transparent graph paper. But though she hasn’t seen them for months, she immediately recognises the curves of his l’s and x’s. Her mouth hangs open as she draws herself to standing, and she feels her heart swell up in her chest.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers.

She can say things like that when she doesn’t have to look into his eyes; so happy and sad, angry and adoring. They still have a lot to work on. She’s still not allowed to touch him when they work together. But this is her third honest smile this morning and it isn’t even 6am, so in the darkness, and the silence, she gets an impulse she cannot ignore. 

Slowly, carefully – more slowly and carefully than Fitz, even before, would admit to appreciating – she lifts his dangling hand and rests it across his chest so that the blood will circulate better. In doing that, her face comes closer to his, her whole body closer, but for once in a long time it doesn’t feel like she is invading his space with her presence, so she savours the moment, and lets her hand linger on his.

She’s going to have to move at some point. And when she does, he’s probably going to notice and she’s going to have to break it to him that she touched him without permission and since that’s never been a problem before, she doesn’t know how it will be received, but this is definitely a case in which she would rather ask forgiveness.

Still, she should break it to him in a gentle and controlled manner, and while she still has warm tea for when all else fails. She takes a small, quiet, controlled breath and gently squeezes his hand. He responds only to lace his fingers with hers, and mimic her squeeze.

“Fitz-“ She stops herself just in case he’s slept through it. He’d always been a deep sleeper before; it was only after the Pod that his sleep had become more fragile. If the rest of him is healing, maybe that is too.

If he is still asleep, and he thinks he’s imagining this, she might after all manage to pull away without consequence. She could take that chance, and go about her morning keeping her distance from him again. But what if he is already awake? What if he’s known this whole time that she specifically went against what he’d asked of her – knowing full well how difficult it was for both of them that he’d had to ask? What would he do?

 _If he’s awake, even barely,_ she answers herself, _then he squeezed back on purpose._

Her heart begins to beat louder in her chest as she takes her chance. She leans in and gives him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

 _Please be dreaming_ , she begs, and _please be awake_ , in equal measure, because she’s not sure which one she really wants until she feels the jolt run through him. His whole body tremors and his eyes snap open, and lock immediately onto hers. They’re only inches away. His lips hang open. They’ve given up seeking words. His eyes are enough: ice blue and angry and adoring, because maybe he was dreaming, but he’s not any more, and he is still holding her hand.


End file.
